Disclaimer: Don't own it, although it'd be pretty damn cool if I did.

A/N: This story will be told in five parts, and I've already got about four of the parts written. Each of the parts are based loosely upon each of the five parts of T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland. I will be using some quotes from said poem, and the references will be at the end of each chapter.

With that said, I sincerely hope you enjoy!

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The Wasteland

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Part One: The Burial of the Dead

She was running up the corridor as fast as she could. She could feel her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest and her veins throbbing. She had such a painful stitch in her side, she felt the urge to drop to the floor and cry for help. The left side of her head was showing evidence of a nasty blow to the skull, and her silvery hair was matted with deep red blood. Her vision was blurred by the tears streaming down her face. At last she allowed herself to stop, to attempt to clear the throbbing pain in her head and to cure herself of the ache in her side. But then she heard the sound of footsteps not too far away, and she tried to bring herself away from the comfort of the wall, away from the only thing keeping her standing. She gingerly let go of the small alcove she was clutching, and then, miserably, she felt her legs collapse from underneath her.

Her nails scraped the sides of the stone precipice as she tried adamantly to stand, but she fell to the floor before ever reaching her full stature. Bruises were beginning to form on her knees from the many times she had fallen to the ground. Again, she tried to rise, and managed to, albeit shakily, if she gripped the stone forcefully. The wall was her lifeline, her seeing eye dog. She plowed through the labyrinth of corridors blindly, using only her fear as sustenance. She soon felt as though she had seen where she was too many times before, so she stopped, almost as though she had lost all hope.

She was at the end of a dimly lit hallway, a wooden door stood ajar to her right. She peered in slowly, her hand on the wall, poised in case she needed to run. The room was empty, except for a an old and dusty desk, and an armchair, whose color was entirely indistinguishable. She pushed the door open, so in need of rest that she collapsed onto the chair with a sigh of sick relief. She knew that this brief respite was neither logical, nor responsible of her, but she could not help but linger in the soft comfort of the battered armchair. Enjoying her repose so much, she allowed her eyelids, blue with fatigue, to flutter shut. It was then that she heard the door swing shut with a soft click. Her heart fell, and she opened her eyes.

Standing before her was a man with greasy black hair that had been tied neatly behind his head, showing a sizable hooked nose. He did not smile, only walked toward her with what she knew to be uneasy steps. Placing his hands either side of her on the armrests, he stared into her gray eyes with his beady black ones. She groaned unintentionally, out of pain, out of anguish but also out of sheer disappointment; she had lost the chase. Then, very gently, he knelt down in front of the trembling woman, staring at her, as if he were a curious child staring at a beautiful, imprisoned animal in a zoo. Her lips were trying to form words, but none came out. He knew he could delay no longer. He took out his wand and spoke in uneven, shaky words.

"Avada Kedavra."

He then closed his eyes very tightly, and sat down fully with a thud on the floor against the desk. When he opened his eyes again, she still lay there, looking very still, very small and very broken. Her eyelids were a deep slate blue, and when he took her into his arms after thoughtful consideration, she fell limp against him. He would not let himself remember her like this. He would remember her youthful, lithe body sprinting up the sloping grass hill to meet him for her tutoring sessions. He would remember her little sighs at not understanding the complicated potions he was trying to teach her. He would remember the smile she gave him when leaving her O.W.Ls examination and the cry of happiness she let out when she told him she was sure she passed and that it was all because of him. He would remember the radiance of her smile when she married a man who was not him, and how the smile only grew when her first son was born.

He had known from the moment he had set eyes upon her that she was someone to be watched. She had sweetly offered him her friendship in her second year, which had been his fourth. She had been merely a girl then, but her pale blue eyes always lit up when she saw him. She had not realized until much later that the older boy had developed amorous feelings for her. He had been there to notice the abrupt change in her once bright demeanor when she had begun her courtship with the man he now viewed solely as his acquaintance and colleague. And they had once been such good friends...

He could no longer bear to hold her dead form like this, so, laying her back gently where she had died only moments earlier, he stood. He backed away from her a few steps, and then feeling she looked so cold, and so, so very tiny, he removed his thick black cloak and laid it on top of her.

Severus Snape then walked away, his back to the woman he never had in life, and wanted so badly to have in death.

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Alone in his bed, Harry Potter looked like a normal boy. Though he bore dark circles underneath his eyes, nothing, at first glance, about his behavior looked peculiar. But looking closer, you could see his hand shaking slightly as he put his glasses on his bedside table, the slumped curvature of his back, the tensed muscles. People noticed the spark in his once vibrant green eyes extinguished. He hadn't bothered to pull back the covers, so he lay, shaking slightly, on his bed. He was very clearly wide awake.

He thought back on seeing Dumbledore crumpled on the cold ground, his withered hand at his side, and how much despair he felt at that moment. Surely he could not defeat Voldemort when his mentor, his only aid, was dead and gone. He remembered how helpless he was when he saw first Draco Malfoy, and then Severus Snape enter the scene, both with the intention of killing Dumbledore. He bore so much anger towards them both he couldn't stand it. While Malfoy hadn't gone through with it, Snape, who Dumbledore had trusted so completely, had taken the one shred of hope Harry had at winning the war once and for all. He had lost his last living mentor, and he found himself feeling irrepressibly alone.

Although something in him protested vehemently, some small voice in the back of his mind telling him he had many things left to do, with the sounds of Ron Weasley's snores as his lullaby, Harry was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

He was in a garden full of thick, bulbous plants covered in waxy, small and very fragrant blue flowers. He felt the scent overpowering him, and as he walked through the garden, his steps grew heavier and he found it increasingly hard to move. The perfume was so thick, he found it very difficult to breathe and when he stopped, he felt himself become slowly asphyxiated by the stench. He found himself compelled to walk forth still, though his movements became steadily sluggish with every step he took.

His eyes were tearing slightly, as the atmosphere continued to slowly stifle him. A girl stood, blocking his path, and he felt annoyed. She was beautiful, long black hair cascaded down her back, and eyes that were the same piercing, deep blue as the flowers surrounding her. She smiled, red lips widening and displaying very, very white teeth. She beckoned him with her long, willowy arms, and he moved towards the mysterious girl. She evoked in him a very strange feeling; it was something dark, something powerful, but something very alluring.

Harry. Harry. His name was spoken repeatedly in his head. He looked at the girl, but her lips were not moving. Harry, Harry. Still, the persistent voice echoed madly in his head. He felt himself fall to his knees. Harry. Harry. Harry. She gave him her hand, but he could not bring himself to stand.

"Come with me, Harry." The girl had spoken. Harry could barely concentrate on anything else but her, though sleep was tugging at his eyelids like a persistent child tugs at his father's shirt sleeve. He tried to push her hand away, but she held onto his wrist with a steadfast grip.

"Harry, you do not understand who I am, but when you do, I assure you, come with me you will." She spoke these words in a breathy whisper. She managed to pull him up, her eyes settled on his with determination. "Harry, you will come to learn that you will need me. I am Hyacinth, and this is my garden."

Harry looked at her incredulously. He had not completely lost his mind. This girl was talking like Professor Trewlawney, and he had no trouble thinking in his mind that every word that came out of her mouth was absolute rubbish.

"Harry, do not doubt me. I can understand why you would be unbelieving. It is not often that you encounter such beauty, such allure." She gestured around to her garden.

"Why am I here?" Harry asked, although not really caring to pay attention to her answer.

"I have brought you here because I know you have experienced great trouble." She picked an apple from a tree nearby and gave it to him. He took it, but did not take a bite. "I would like to take you away from your pain, your anger." Harry looked at her like she was growing a third eye.

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust," she whispered. Harry stopped his scoffing, and looked at her. Those words made him actually listen properly, and take in her very being. He noticed the teeth faintly pointed, and the skin that was very white, and rather taut.

She turned, her hand still gripping his tightly, and walked further into the jungle of flowers. Harry was becoming less receptive to the powerful properties the plants clearly held, and yet, he followed her still. I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Those words haunted him as they continued their trek further into the tangle of blue blooms. When she turned to face him, he noticed a faint red glimmer in the blue of her eyes.

"I will help you understand why there has been so much pain in your life, why you lead a doomed existence. We will share the treasures of my land together. You will be able to unload all the many burdens of your life, all the secrets you know, onto to me. I will help you carry the heavy load of your most important, pressing secret."

"Trelawney?" Harry whispered more to himself than to the bewitching girl before him, entranced by the gentle sway of the bulbous flowers behind her. He then noticed her take in a sharp breath, as though she were taken aback. She walked forward slowly.

"Who is this Trelawney you speak of?" This she asked quizzically, but rapturously. Harry could almost see her tongue dart out from behind her pointy teeth to lick her lips, and this, he felt, was a sign that she was more interested in the prophecy than she was in him ruling her 'kingdom' by her side.

"Oh... no one." He tried to say, but she latched on to his arm, and he felt her nails dig in deeply. "Ah, ah, ah, no secrets, Harry. Remember, I am here to help you overcome your burden," Hyacinth hissed excitedly.

"Just a... homework assignment I forgot to complete." Harry looked at his feet, which were bare. He could see the veins twisting around beneath the skin, writhing like snakes in his nervous eyes.

"Don't lie to me, you silly child. Trelawney... Is she not a Seer, perhaps?" Hyacinth said these last words with her lips an inch from Harry's ear. He heard, just as he had before, a faint hissing in her breath. It was then he noticed the tiny gold snake, with ruby red jewels for eyes, twisted around her upper arm. This whole scenario suddenly began to remind him dangerously of the Garden of Eden. He was Eve, and this girl, Hyacinth, was the snake who lead her to temptation which in turn became the damnation of humanity.

Harry began to scream, and Ron woke him only moments later, a fear and sadness etched on his face was visible in the dim light of the flickering candle.

---

The torches barely lit the corridor, and Professor Trelawney tried in vain to wrap her shawl more tightly around her, as she was cold, but this was a pointless feat; her hands had been tied behind her back with a magical rope of some sort and would not undo. She felt a tear slip down her bony cheek. She had lost the only man who believed in her, Dumbledore, and now she knew her time had come. She had not foreseen her own downfall, as she had seen Harry's many a time, but in her gut feeling, she felt the end was near.

She was being lead around twists and turns, which she was sure was meant to confuse her further, and the Death Eater holding her arm gruffly seemed to do so with the utmost disdain. He had no sympathy for her. He was simply a henchman, sent out to do his job by the 'boss'.

When they had finally reached the end of their journey, at the end of a particularly long and twisted hallway, a door, ornately carved with images of snakes, stood before her, a picture almost too terrifying for the poor bug-eyed woman to look at. The door opened slowly, and inside was a small torture chamber. It was not a traditional Muggle torture chamber, no, it was bare, except for a large chair set to one side. Before this grand throne, an empty space, a perfect spot to place a prisoner and have perfect view of him the entire time one's wand was pointed at his pitiful face.

The Death Eater shoved her in, so roughly that she fell to the floor at the foot of the throne. She looked up to find it empty. The door slammed shut and she was alone in this room, shivering. Her shawl felt lighter upon her shoulders than ever before. She began to sob quietly, never having been so lonely before now.

Left in there for four days, Trelawney lay on the hard ground shivering, starving and thirsty. The Death Eater who brought her to her death room had brought her water on her second day, but had only allowed it to splash her lips before he whisked it away. Today was the day she would be questioned and then killed, she could feel it. All she had thought about the entire time she had been trapped in her prison was the last thing Dumbledore had said to her. He had told her of the prophecy she had made and how it impacted the entire war in a very major way. He told her that both Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter had shared the same destiny from birth, and that Harry had just been the one chosen. And then Trelawney remember him saying a very peculiar thing. Until now. Trelawney did not want Voldemort to capture Harry, for whom she had developed a small soft spot for over the years. She felt she had to say something else, anything.

The next day, she felt the air magically charged around her, and only moments later, the door opened and there the horrific figure of Voldemort stood before her. He snickered at her, and with a swish of his robes, went to sit in the high backed throne in the north corner of the room. Trelawney tried to stand, but Voldemort hissed, "Sit down, you stupid woman. This will be over too soon for me to waste my time watching you attempt to stand."

Trelawney shook in place, but remained sitting. Voldemort regarded her for a few moments, before saying in a voice that betrayed his look of boredom just slightly, "So, you filth, the prophecy, eh? The one you made eighteen years ago. The one that spoke of a certain boy, a certain Harry Potter."

Voldemort looked at her in an odd manner, squinting his eyes slightly. She couldn't tell for the life of her what he was doing. It was then that she felt as though something very strong, like a giant, was tugging at her brain. The tugging stopped and she felt a breeze pass through her ear canals. Voldemort closed his eyes, looking rather pleased. He looked as though he were in deep contemplation. Then, very suddenly, his eyes flew open.

"This prophecy is very vague." He spat.

"There is another boy," she gulped, "Neville Longbottom. He is the boy Dumbledore thought the prophecy was about all along." She looked at Voldemort's red eyed without blinking, staring him down. Voldemort looked visibly flustered.

"We've had the wrong boy the whole time? But how could this be?" Voldemort stood, and walked towards the door. Almost as an afterthought, he spun on his heal to face Sibyl Trelawney.

"You haven't been completely useless. You may have been a nuisance, but you've saved me a lot of time. No matter." He turned around once more, walked through the threshold. Trelawney let out a sigh of relief. She wasn't worm's meat. Yet.

"Avada kedavra."

---

Draco Malfoy held a letter with a shaking hand, any trace of color drained from his normally pale face: he looked utterly ghostly. He looked up, his eyes hazy, and saw the blurry figure of Tom, the barman, come near. His eyes refocused, and he saw Tom look down to his letter ever so quickly, and then realize just what it was. His face contorted slightly, and he began to mouth things slowly, perhaps his apologies, before he moved away.

Draco nodded, left a gold galleon on the table, took his letter and walked out the door of the Leaky Cauldron. The day was dark, as the rain clouds covered the sky and the gleaming sun of the day before. He began to walk slowly down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley. He looked at all the faces, children were happy in this magical place. He felt like it was his prison.

He had been told to stay here, by the Minister of Magic himself, in the very letter that announced his mother's death. He felt angry at the formality of the letter, wishing in the back of his mind Dumbledore was still alive, as he would have been the one to tell him. Dumbledore would have understood. Snape had been the one to kill his mother. The man who had been in the house when Draco was born; he had held the boy, third only to his father and mother. He had grown up with Snape as his mentor, knowing all those years how deeply Snape felt for Narcissa. And now, she was gone.

A child walked up to him, holding out a single lilac stalk, tiny flowers bursting out all around. The child was poor, the dirt on his cheeks gave that away. Draco took out another gold galleon, far more than the two knuts the child was asking for, and took the lilac. The child than ran from him, back to his mother, who smiled thankfully at Draco, tears in her eyes. He noticed all of seven children's feet were bare. Looking down at his own shoes, he plowed on, the lilac pressed against the letter forcefully.

There we are, mother. You have your lilac now. Draco thought. He remembered the lilacs surrounding Malfoy Manor, and the lilacs in every room. He remembered his father thinking her fanatic lilac garden was inappropriate for his house, and having them all pulled out overnight. He remembered his mother's face when she saw the lilacs littering the grounds, dying, their petals curling and browning at the edges. How she cried that day...

He observed all the ghosts of his past... several of his old classmates were there. He recognized a few Gryffindors, a very substantial number of Hufflepuffs and rather a lot of Ravenclaws. Not once, however, did a Slytherin show his face. He knew where most of them were... preparing. He was not so much angry, just fed up. He couldn't make his father proud, and he never knew what his mother wanted him to be. She had always been so oppressed...

It was then that McGonagall tapped his shoulder briskly. "Mister Malfoy," she said carefully, "I trust that you are... all right." Draco turned to face her, but while he was prepared to lash out at her, he noticed she looked terribly distraught. He shook his head slightly, and she sighed. "I am terribly sorry for what has happened to you. I hope this does not anger you, but I am meant to stay here to... to guard you. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is looking for you, Draco. He wants you, and Mister Potter. You are both in grave danger. Now, many students are remaining at Hogwarts. It is no longer the safest place, but many Aurors are there watching over your classmates. I am not telling you that you must go back, but you can't remain in Diagon Alley forever. It will soon be taken over."

Draco watched her quietly. Slowly, he allowed himself to sneer. "What makes you think I'm not the one whose going to be doing the taking over?" Draco drawled, but his heart was not in it. However, his father's looming image was imprinted in his mind, reminding him to keep up appearances and to show no weakness.

"He wants you dead, boy," McGonagall snapped, but it was clear her heart was not in it either. "Why on earth do you think he'd trust you with something like this?"

The boy shrugged, his pale hair covering his face so that McGonagall could not see him with fear in his eyes. He had long since given up keeping up appearances. He had allowed himself to get too thin and allowed his hair to grow too long and remain unkempt. He looked utterly lost and unimposing. McGonagall lost any flicker of bite when she said, "What would you like to do?"

Draco stood there, noticing how fragile McGonagall looked, dark circles lay to sleep forever under her eyes and wrinkles twisted their way up her already ancient face. He had the urge to reach out and touch her arm, but before he could give into the temptation, he felt a brisk tap on his shoulder. Before he turned, McGonagall said hurriedly that she was staying in the Leaky Cauldron, Room 8. Draco spun to face Blaise Zabini.

"Blaise..." Draco whispered. His friend was covered in cuts and bruises, and was walking with a slight limp. He fell to hug Draco, who staggered back under Blaise's weight. The tall boy sighed, relieved, and while still leaning on Draco, propped himself up.

"I'm sorry, mate. The boss sent one of his henchmen after us again to try to 'recruit' my mother and I. I snapped his wand. So... after that, we had a bit of a struggle." Draco stared blankly at Blaise. He was one of the few Slytherins Draco knew who was in no way affiliated with Voldemort, who he referred to as 'the boss', for reasons unbeknownst to Draco. He guessed Voldemort found his family a powerful asset, as the Zabinis came from old money and a very Pureblooded line.

"Merlin, I stink of my mum's lilac perfume. The bloody bastard threw a whole tray of it at me. Unbelievable." Blaise shook his head, and smiled at Draco good-naturedly. Sinking, Draco thought Blaise was behaving in a very, very friendly manner, and it bothered him a little. Blaise, and in fact all the Zabinis, were a very snotty, arrogant and cold bunch. Draco couldn't remember if Blaise had ever used the word 'mate' to designate a friend of his, or for that matter the phrase 'bloody bastard'.

"Draco, what's wrong? You look peaky." Blaise hobbled forward. Draco shook his head, and mumbled, "Mum's dead." Blaise looked positively outraged. "Right! Well... That... bastard..." Draco looked at the slender boy in front of him in an entirely new light. Blaise grabbed Draco's arm, for comfort and his own support, and they made their way awkwardly to a stone bench.

"God, I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?" Blaise asked earnestly. Draco, who had always been rather skilled at healing charms, a skill that for some reason greatly annoyed his father, began to heal one by the one the scrapes marring Blaise's beautiful, dark skin.

"Tell Pansy that I never want to see her again?" Draco replied.

Blaise snickered, in spite of their situation. Draco spoke again. "I'm serious. I can't deal with her anymore... And what with my mum... It's just not what I want anymore."

"Consider it done, Draco. You're going to be all right. You know that, right?" Blaise said. "You didn't give in, and I respect that."

So that was why he was being so friendly, Draco thought. Blaise despised anything to do with Voldemort. He hated the fact that all his acquaintances fully planned on becoming Death Eaters the day they turned seventeen. Draco suspected that Blaise thought that because of Draco's little stunt the night of Dumbledore's death that maybe he had changed. It was the first time that he, Draco, actually gave his position in the war some thought. All he knew was that he had no desire to be apart of what killed his mother.

"No, I didn't give in, did I?"

Draco Malfoy's slender hand crumpled the letter, the letter no one would ever know to be covered in tear stains.

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A/N: "I will show you fear in a handful of dust." - The Wasteland, I. The Burial of The Dead, T. S. Eliot.